I never put the phone away. I never got the chance to. I was hanging up with Joaquin Rosa when I heard the first gunshot and froze. Then Orion tackled me, and the phone must’ve fallen out of my hand. This is the worst start to my final day on this planet. Returning to Times Square to look for the phone would be so stupid. Fool me once, shame on New York. Fool me twice, shame on me for risking my life so I can call my sister and for holding out hope that Death-Cast might call back to tell me it’s not actually my End Day.

The phone is gone. I have to accept that just like my fate.

Besides, it already served its grand purpose.

No other call will be as life-changing as the one that started this mess.

Joaquin Rosa

12:21 a.m.

This isn’t how Joaquin imagined Death-Cast’s launch.

He believed the calls would be simpler.

Statistically, there are big spikes in death rates on holidays. More drivers on the road equals more accidents. Sharing a cigarette with a family member can lead to one’s lungs turning on them, and since they can’t be treated in understaffed emergency rooms due to the holidays, the day is stained with loss. Not to mention all the suicides in this unforgiving world. It’s all painful, but ultimately, not uncommon. But today isn’t a traditional holiday.

Perhaps it’s still too early, but Joaquin expected some praise to start flowing in by now. How many people are living differently, more thoughtfully since discovering this isn’t an ordinary Saturday, but instead their final Saturday, their one and only End Day?

Instead of treating Joaquin as an angel, they’re calling him the devil.

“They’re talking about me like I’m the villain,” Joaquin says to his wife. He’s in the company suite, scrolling through Twitter on his laptop while Naya looks over his shoulder. This is all so heartbreaking. And such a slap to the face. No one knows the sacrifices he made to bring these forecasts to the public. “The world knows I didn’t invent death, yes?”

“You’re reinventing death,” Naya says.

“I’m reinventing how we live with death,” Joaquin counters.

“I’m familiar with Death-Cast’s adages, my love.” Naya sits beside Joaquin, prying his hands off the keyboard and holding them in her own. “But the rest of the world is still catching on. I warned you that choosing to be so face-forward also means becoming the face of death until people understand otherwise.”

If only Joaquin were actually a psychic overlord from space so he could look into the future to know when this abuse will stop. He’s itching to read more comments, to find one loud voice to inspire others to view this situation differently, to remind everyone that Joaquin is a human from this planet with a love for life.